


Windows to the Soul

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, there are a couple warnings in the notes, which has been canceled but i kinda like this so, written for deancasexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for seeingxghosts on tumblr, whose page doesn't even exist, now that i've checked it. It was for the deancasexchange on tumblr, but it was just canceled. So I can't contact my recipient, and the exchange was canceled. I have shitty luck. </p><p>This was for prompt 3: fic: someone (gabriel? zachariah?) snatches dean and sends him into an alternate reality. sam and cas travel through one AU after another while following his trail.</p><p>tw: body horror/eye horror. violence, guns, slight blood. dubious medical knowledge.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Windows to the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for seeingxghosts on tumblr, whose page doesn't even exist, now that i've checked it. It was for the deancasexchange on tumblr, but it was just canceled. So I can't contact my recipient, and the exchange was canceled. I have shitty luck. 
> 
> This was for prompt 3: fic: someone (gabriel? zachariah?) snatches dean and sends him into an alternate reality. sam and cas travel through one AU after another while following his trail.
> 
> tw: body horror/eye horror. violence, guns, slight blood. dubious medical knowledge.

The sun's starting to become inescapable. Everywhere Dean looks there are cheerful couples walking hand in hand, kids with ice cream encased in warm waffle cones, and even an actual balloon vendor handing out brightly colored ones for a buck each. The sky is soft blue without a single cloud, but Dean can't find it in himself to feel as happy as his surroundings. 

They are waiting for a body to be found, after all.

Unfortunately, that's all they're expecting: a crackling report of new evidence on the police radio. The past few victims (two corpses in a bed, sulfur on the doorstep) were definitely not killed by your average demon. Cas said it was something big, since they haven't been able to find the damn thing for a week, and because Amala Dutta-the latest victim-has been in a coma for a week. 

Dean hasn't slept in two days; there are dark circles under his eyes and the tiniest shakes in his hands when he reaches for a beer. And it just doesn't look like they'll find anything to go on soon, unless somebody else gets hurt. Counting on the deaths of others isn't pleasant, but the only way they can find this thing is if something happens. 

Muffled rock music plays from his pocket, shaking Dean from his thoughts. He leans against the sun-heated brick wall of the police department and flips open his phone, uncomfortably aware of how humid it is in his suit and tie. 

"Yeah." Dean closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the wall. He should catch some sleep when he gets back to the hotel. Unless Sam has found something, he's content to just stand here and let the sun turn his vision bright red behind his eyelids.

"I found something," Sam says. Dean opens his eyes, then frowns. "Wait, seriously? Alright, hit me."

"Well, I visited Amala in the hospital," Sam says. Dean hears the shift of papers as he moves what must be a stack of dusty books. Poor Sam has been stuck researching at Bobby's with Cas for most of the day. In Dean's book it's a pretty fair trade, since he's just spent hours talking to the bewildered sheriff, who was no help at all.

"The nurse who attended to her first said there was something in her eyes when he checked her pupils. Some kind of yellow dust."

Sam lets the end of his sentence trail away meaningfully. "Sulfur?" Dean asks, catching on after a few seconds. "Gross. That's gotta sting," he says, grimacing.

"Well, she's not really awake to feel it, but yeah, it sounds like it was pure sulfur." Sam's voice is that mix of fascinated and incredulous that's become familiar to Dean. "I found something in one of Bobby's books, about a demon who enters through the eyes, and leaves the vics comatose. I'm gonna check with the coroner to see if the other bodies had the same thing, but I think this could be our guy."

"Yeah, sounds like it. That book mention anything about how to get the demon out?"

Sam pauses, and Dean gets a sinking feeling. "Um...you're not gonna like it."

\---

African Dreamroot isn't very hard to find. Not when they have Bobby's haphazard cabinets and shelves, stocked full of strange jars and boxes that have 'do not open!' inked on them. The Xhosa people of southern Africa regard it as sacred, but Bobby has always been good at navigating the supernatural black market. 

The hard part is using it.

Castiel has been standing the whole time Sam and Dean have been arguing, but at this point, he slides into one of the ragged armchairs with a sigh that makes Sam look up. Dean gives him a sheepish look, but in truth, he doesn't care much that he's wasting time; he wants them to get this hunt done without anybody getting hurt, more than anything. 

This time, the argument is about who-if any of them-will go inside Amala Dutta's mind, to exorcise the demon. They don't have much time, since her condition is deteriorating steadily, the doctors watching with confused frowns as the monitors by her bed beep slower and slower. 

X-rays just can't capture the blackness in her veins, no matter how they hold them up to the light. Their theories might all be useless, but the one thing that the doctors do know is that this sickness is killing her, quickly and surely. By the end of the week, the last victim will have died, and the demon will be able to escape, to find another person to invade. 

Maybe it's the lack of sleep, or the fact that Dean's already seen two bodies laid out in the morgue today. Either way, he's volunteered-or rather, demanded-to go. 

Sam looks at him, and Cas sees the question in his eyes: do you want to do this? Cas gives a small nod. There is nowhere he'd rather be than with the Winchesters, even in their many dangerous quests to save those around them. 

Dean asked him to stay, when Sam was asleep-it was well into the grey hours of early morning. He kept twining his fingers around the handle of his mug of cold coffee, and they hadn't lost that day: the werewolf had already been injured, and between the three of them, it was almost easy to take it down. 

But Dean still said, "Would you mind staying around down here for a while? We could use the help." And Cas nodded, because of course he would. He had paused for a moment, uncertain, and then put a hand on his friend's shoulder. Touching like that is becoming more and more common between them, and Castiel can't find it in himself to feel anything more than joy when they kiss, though he is well-aware that angels falling in love with humans is not often encouraged. 

"You're not going alone," Sam tells his brother, and that's it. Dean concedes, rolling his eyes dramatically. Cas blinks away wordlessly, to get a few hairs from Amala. There are rules for this-to get inside her mind, they have to have something from her body. 

By the time he slips back into the house with a whoosh of air, the boys are agreed, at least for now. Sam watches with a smirk as Dean tries to help Cas get the right pan from Bobby's clattered cupboards, and then get the water hot. Dean also shoots his brother a venomous glare after what sounds suspiciously like an amused chuckle. Finally, the three of them sit in their chairs and accept the mugs of makeshift potion Cas hands them: boiled dreamroot with Amala's hair in it. 

When the cups reach their lips, Sam and Dean make twin faces of disgust that bring a small smile to Castiel's face. But even he winces a little at the bitter taste, as he downs his own cup.

It's only a few seconds until they start to grow dizzy. Sam and Dean stumble down onto the beds as sleep rises to their eyes, warm and heavy. Cas bends to help ease Sam's head onto the pillow, then goes to the other bed for Dean. His eyes are lowering too, slowly. Castiel slides down to his knees, then all the way down, leaning back against the scratched wooden nightstand between the two beds. 

His eyes close, hand still curled around Dean's wrist. 

\---

Dean comes to, a sensation not unlike the rush of blood to the head right after waking, and immediately feels wrong. He stands, and for a moment he just thinks that the disorientation is part of being inside some stranger's mind. He really hates that he's almost getting used to the feeling of slipping out of his own body. His life is too weird for words, sometimes.

But as he looks down, his horror grows. There's something much more wrong here than just the everyday chaos of a hunt. 

His hair is longer-he feels tufts of it tickling the back of his neck-and instead of the boots he fell asleep in, he's wearing scuffed sneakers. His chest is covered in a soft cotton t-shirt with a picture of Spider-Man on it. His amulet, he realizes, with a pang of sadness that sucks the air out of his lungs, is around his neck again, beneath the shirt. He splays his hand over his chest, feeling the bump of the lost necklace under the fabric. 

His nostalgia is somewhat dampened by the fact that he appears to be a few inches under five feet tall. 

Dean looks at his impossibly small hands, speechless. "What the hell." His voice comes out squeaky and he closes his eyes with a groan. This is going to cause a headache, he can tell. 

He looks around, taking in the dew-soaked grass, the sun glancing off the jungle gym-this lady's got a weird subconscious, for sure. He's not in any place he recognizes, which is bad, and there's no sign of Amala or even a demon or two, which is also bad, depending on how you look at the situation. 

Sam and Cas are nowhere to be seen. It's fuzzy, but he remembers Cas helping him lie down before he passed out; and the familiar feeling of Cas' hand on his. 

"Sam! Cas! You guys here?" Dean yells. 

The white petals blowing off the dogwoods swirl around him lazily as if in response, but that's all he gets, besides total silence. 

"Alright. I'm..." Dean looks down at his skinny legs, the baggy jeans with holes in them. 

"I'm like, eleven. Fantastic." 

A blur of movement catches his eyes. A small girl in a red dress is running knock-kneed across the playground, crunching the wood-chips with her glossy black shoes. "Hey!" Dean yells, hating the childish sound of his own voice. The girl's head whips around, but when she sees him she bolts, disappearing behind a curling yellow slide made of dingy plastic. 

Dean curses and starts to jog. That's got to be Amala, though in reality she's what, thirty? It is her mind they're in, though, so she must have something to do with Dean and her being pint-sized. 

"Amala." She freezes at the mention of her name, then nods. There are tear tracks on her face, and this close, Dean can definitely see the resemblance this girl has to the woman he saw in the hospital bed: freckled dark skin, high cheekbones, and a small mole on her chin. She doesn't look much older than nine, but the fear in her blue eyes makes her seem much younger. 

Dean wants to tell her to wake the hell up so they can hightail it out of here, but instead, what comes out is, "What's wrong?" He kneels down, hoping his expression communicates that he's here to help, that he isn't anything to be scared of. He hopes Sam and Castiel are alright, wherever they are, and that they find him really, really soon. 

"There's a, a monster guy, he has black eyes, and I'm all small and a kid...." Amala babbles, throat tight with tears. A small hiccuping sound bubbles out of her throat, then turns into something like a bitter laugh. "I'm thirty-eight. But I look like a fifth grader. Where am I? He did something to my eyes." 

"You're asleep," Dean says. "This is all a dream." Amala gapes, confused. "No," she starts. 

The sound of leaves crunching makes Dean jerk, and he curses internally at how his heart pounds. He shouldn't be this scared, dammit, he's not really a kid. But he definitely feels like one, as irrational as it is. He hates going into freaking dreams. 

Dean's palms turn clammy when he sees the demon, who smiles as if they're all close friends. 

"Amala, look at you. Just a powerless child. Isn't it wonderful what your subconscious can do to how you see yourself? Fear makes you feel like a child, so you become one in your dreams." 

The man, who has sunny blonde hair that curls around a devious, smiling face, turns to Dean. He takes one step toward him, then another, and Dean can't help noticing with a pang that this demon has so many advantages over him when he's so small and weak. In his immaculate black suit, the man looks utterly out of place next to the children by his feet.

"Amala," Dean says urgently. "This is just a dream. A really, really bad dream. It doesn't mean anything. I can kick this guy's ass, and so can you."

"Really?" the demon scoffs. "You? Maybe in a few decades, boy," he laughs. He walks casually up to Dean, closing the distance between them quicker than Dean likes. 

"I'd like to see you try. This is Amala's mind, and as long as she thinks she's just a child, all scared and weak..." he growls the last part out, and Amala hides behind Dean with a squeak. "Then so are you."

Dean curls his hands into fists. "Exorcizamus te," he grits out, but the demon waves a hand, and he's left gaping at the air like a fish out of water, glaring at the demon even harder. The man's eyes flit to black, and his tongue darts out between his teeth as he smiles, amused. Behind him, Amala holds her head in her hands, and wishes desperately to wake up. But wishing it won't make it so, she knows, under the childlike fear. 

She can't stop being scared, but she has to do something.

Dean glares up at the man. He has to stall, do something, until Sam and Castiel find them. 

His desperate plans are interrupted when Amala darts forward and drives her fist into the side of the demon's face. She huffs as he falls to the ground. The demon doesn't get up, and Amala sighs with relief when she looks down and sees that her body has returned to normal. She doesn't look like a kid anymore; more like the woman in the hospital Dean saw. 

"...Or you could do that, yeah. That works," Dean says, blinking. The demon struggles from the ground with a grunt, using a hand to support himself. He seems shaken, and evidently whatever was holding back Dean's voice has been, too. Blood a shade darker than human runs down his nose. Amala shakes her hand, wincing, but keeps her eyes on the demon. 

"You..." he looks so utterly shocked that Dean can't help grinning, despite the situation.

"Looks like you're not that scary after all," he crows. 

The demon growls, low and threatening, and then disappears in the blink of an eye, to Dean's disappointment, and Amala's obvious relief. Where he's gone, neither of them know, but at least they don't seem to be in any danger at the moment. This doesn't mean Dean doesn't curse loudly in frustration, though. He hates playing cat-and-mouse, and it doesn't help that his heart is still pounding, like he's an untrained kid. 

Amala sits on one of the swings and breathes for a moment, swaying slightly. The wind blows across the red maples that dot the playground. Leaves whisper across the rich black dirt, crunching under Dean's feet as he shifts from side to side awkwardly. 

The swing set's chains creak and groan, and it's such a familiar sound from Dean's childhood that he stops for a second and listens. He keeps an eye on Amala at all times, and prays that he won't be stuck as a kid forever. 

Amala's breaths even out, and Dean looks down. "Finally," he sighs. He's back in his normal clothes, and in his normal body, which makes a knot of worry slip away from the muscles in his neck. He wonders if he changed back into an adult because Amala calmed down, but right now he doesn't care, as long as he gets to stay that way.

"Is this really just a dream?" Amala says. She keeps looking down, as if her body will change if she looks away for too long-and really, Dean doesn't know for sure that it won't, with the demon still out there. He feels a pang of sympathy; it can't be easy having your own mind control your reality. 

Amala uses her beat-up running shoes to push herself gently off the ground, swinging lightly. She looks like any girl Dean would see at a bar, or at some diner in the middle of the night. And as she tucks the bits of her hair that fell over her face under her hijab, Dean becomes determined not to let another civilian die. 

"Yeah, it's really a dream. Look, I dunno if that guy's gonna come back, so we've gotta get out of here."

"How? How am I supposed to get out of my own mind?" Amala asks, mouth drawn into a line. She frowns. "And how did you get in?"

"Family recipe," Dean cracks, searching for a good way to explain this. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then takes a deep breath. "That guy was a demon." 

"A what?" Amala snorts. Dean gives her a sort-of shrug. She has to know, deep down, that what she's experiencing is something completely else, so he can't do much with her derision, right now. 

Dean's mind whirls with possibilities-whenever he's dream-walked before, the ticket out was death. Is he going to have to kill Amala? It won't be real, but she might panic, even if it's just in a dream. And he could be wrong, and kill her in real life. Sam, Cas, where are you? Dean wonders, running a hand down his face. He's even more aware of the rough calluses on his hands, after his brief time with the smooth skin of a preteen, and he tries to ignore it. 

When he grew back, his favorite gun popped back with him, the silver one with the smooth, pure white ivory grips. He can feel the reassuring heaviness of it tucked into his waistband. Less reassuring, however, is the idea that he might have to use it on Amala, since trying to exorcise the demon failed so massively. 

Dean's heart jumps into his throat when he hears the familiar sound of feathers from behind him. Sam smiles and very noticeably lets his shoulders relax at the sight of his brother, and Cas straightens up somewhat. "Where the hell were you guys?" Dean demands, intensely grateful in some small part of him that they hadn't been here earlier to see him as a tween. 

"It was a....water-park." Sam furrows his brow as if the very word makes his brain hurt. "A what?" Dean asks. He looks at Cas, who spreads his palms ever so slightly in a defensive gesture.

"One of those huge amusement park places, complete with a freaking lazy river shaped like a heart," Sam supplies, running a hand through his hair. Him and Cas have been sneaking glances at Amala, in the midst of their confusing reunion. Checking for injuries or anything weird, probably, but luckily she seems to be completely normal now. The demon was probably waiting for us, Dean thinks, unable to relax with the memory of its taunting smile. 

"...Are you talking about Creve Coeur Amusement Park?" Amala cuts in, voice unsure. "I used to work there when I was sixteen." 

"What." Sam says flatly. This is Cas' cue. "This...landscape is made of Amala's dreams and memories. Her mind is very vast," he says, matter-of-fact. "...Thank you?" Amala says, sounding more than a little strangled. 

"Trapping her in her own mind, just like a djinn," Sam says distractedly. "Yeah, but this guy's definitely a demon. He's not in it for a happy meal, he just likes it," Dean says. Amala flinches slightly at his bluntness, but doesn't object. 

"What's that?" she says after a few minutes, her shoulders stiffening. She curls her fist, the one smudged with demon blood, automatically. Dean watches as her head tilts up, eyes wide and concerned. 

"Do you hear that?" 

Castiel tilts his head, but nobody says anything, the tension in the air freezing all of them where they stand. There are sounds filling up the silence of the playground, bit by bit. First it's just the murmur of chatter in the back of her head, but the playground remains empty, save for the group of people standing in the center. 

"Cas, can you get us out of here?" Sam says. He can't hear anything, but Amala is looking from left to right with increasing panic, and he knows that something's wrong. They all rush to crowd together, closing the few feet Amala had warily kept when they first appeared. She reaches an arm out, too, even though she has no idea what's going on.

But before they can grab each other, to make the connection necessary to fly, Amala's vision goes fuzzy. The clack of porcelain is added to shifting papers, and Amala's eyes roll back. 

\---

"Hey, wake up!" 

Amala jerks from her seat at the round table, wiping drool from her mouth. A purple apron hits her in the face. 

"Jesus, Amala. You should lay off the night shifts," Dale says, squinting at her. 

"C'mon, it's your turn to man the register."

Amala nods, flashing a sheepish smile. "Sorry." She puts on the apron, picking at the gold embroidery on the front that reads 'Callie's Coffee'. 

She was having the weirdest dream. She was smaller, a child, and was being chased through the playground next to her grandma's house-chased by a strange man in a black suit. Amala shakes her head, letting out a disbelieving snort. As if something like that would ever happen to her. 

Her life is nothing but normal. 

\---

The cafe is small, and everything about it gleams brand-new. Rows of gilded decorative plates line the walls above the plush booths, and all the people behind the counter have perfect hair, perfect skin, and annoying little visor hats on their heads. 

Dean curses as the dizziness returns, signaling yet another dream-scape he's stuck in. As his vision clears, he notices that his outfit has changed, too, though his body is blissfully the same. He's wearing a green apron that says 'Callie's Coffe' on it, and there is what feels suspiciously like a hat on his head. 

"Hey Winchester, can you cover for me?" a voice calls, over the sound of the tinny pop music playing all around the shop. Dean turns, hoping it's the demon, because he really, really wants to punch something. 

His eyes widen when he turns around and sees Amala, smiling at him placidly. The tear tracks are gone from her face, as is the blood that was smudged on her knuckles when she punched the demon. 

Dean doesn't know what to do, but the absence of his brother and Cas is making him jumpy. He walks over to the counter and leans on his hands, aware that he's gripping the marble surface tightly. 

"Where the hell are they? I...where the hell are we?" he demands. 

Amala just looks at him confusedly. The ingredients and sauces lining the counter all seem familiar to Dean, as if he's been working here all his life, which causes his chest to twist with anxiety. It's not real, he thinks. This isn't real. 

Amala's eyes glaze over for a second, but then she shakes her head, as if clearing it. "Can you refill the creamer? We've got a bunch of new customers; some kind of school event," Amala says, putting a stack of bills into the register, completely oblivious to Dean's jaw grinding in frustration.

"Can I-Amala, you're dreaming," Dean says. He rips the stupid visor off his head, and may or may not get an arm tangled in his apron when he furiously pulls it from around his neck. He lets it fall to the ground, but nobody seems to notice it, or the sudden outburst. 

"Come on, you know this is wrong," Dean urges, when Amala does nothing more than stare back at him. She shakes her head, the smile on her face falling slightly. 

The porcelain plates begin to fall from the walls, one after another, but none of the employees notice as they shatter. Dammit, Dean thinks. The demon's playing her again. And this stupid place is falling apart the more confused she gets. 

Sam always researched the vics well, and Amala's case was no different. He ran Dean by all the things he could find out through a little creative hacking, and it came down to this: Amala's life was never apple pie-worthy. Student loan debt, divorced parents, and an estranged brother were among the things they found. 

Dean didn't think any of that would be relevant when they found out it was a demon, but he was so wrong. What Amala seems to want is a quiet, perfect life. Her mind conjured up a quaint little coffee shop, and now she's living her dream. These alternate universes that the demon's pulled from her subconscious are either too-perfect paradises, or horrible nightmares, like the last one. There's no in-between. And as far as Dean can tell, there's no escape.

He doesn't want Amala to get trapped here, and he definitely doesn't want to die here, of all places. This insane dream-scape is so perfect and shining it makes him frown just looking at it. Dean never could fit in places like this. No matter how tempting it is to just forget about the demon and fall into the weird domestic tasks, no matter how much a little voice in his head tells him 'just give up'....he needs to face reality. 

Besides, what would he do without Sam? Without Cas?

"Nothing's wrong," Amala insists, voice wavering. She flinches as shards of glass burst around her, the light from the ceiling fixtures going out abruptly as the bulbs shatter. Amala's breathing hard as she asks Dean-or pleads, more accurately- "Why can't my life be normal?"

"Look, nobody's life is perfect," Dean says, shielding his head with his arms as bits of plaster come raining down in a cloud of dust. "This, this stupid perfect....hipster coffee place, this is just a dream." He looks Amala in the eyes imploringly. "You're being trapped by a demon, come on!" 

"I want to be here," Amala chokes out. "I don't want to leave."

Glass crunches from behind. Dean turns to find himself face-to-face with a very impatient-looking Sam, gripping Castiel's elbow. "Finally," Sam breathes, grabbing Dean with his other hand. He looks at Amala, then back at Dean. "She's fine. Just shook up. Let's get the hell out of here," Dean says over the cacophony of chair-legs snapping, skittering splinters of lacquered wood around their feet as chunks of ceiling fall.

Sam nods. "I think that would be for the best," Castiel agrees. He frowns, then reaches up, pulling a green visor from his head. "The way our appearances change in every dream is....bothersome," he says, letting the hat fall from his hand. He plucks at the apron that is, ridiculously, tied around his bulky overcoat. 

Dean could kiss him right there, but he just smothers a laugh behind his hand. He waggles his eyebrows at Sam, who scowls down at his own apron. Being inside people's minds might suck big time, but what Dean wouldn't give to see what Sam and Cas looked like at that waterpark dream...he's thinking skimpy bathing suits, definitely. 

Amala can hear the demon. She remembers him vaguely, just like everything else that's not her little polished-up coffee-shop life. His voice is in her head, making her temples pound.

"Sam, Dean," Cas says, voice tinged with warning. He turns to look at Amala, who stands behind the counter, a cup clutched in her hand. The liquid inside it is inky black, and she stares at the little grey bubbles that sway on the surface of the drink: her hand is shaking. 

Something about the way Castiel looks at the mug she holds gives Dean the idea that something's gone wrong. Again. Great. 

"What is it, Cas?" Sam asks, brow furrowed. 

Cas doesn't answer, just strides forward in two big steps and rests his hand on Amala's arm. She looks up in surprise, and her eyes seem to clear a little. "Who....do I know you?" she asks. 

"Where did you get that?" he demands. 

"I...." Amala looks at the smooth ceramic in her hand with confusion. 

"Put it down," Cas says. His voice is firm but soft. 

Just drink it, the voice in her head says. It'll make your head stop hurting...

"It's a trick. Food and drink used as a trap to make someone stay is an old, yet effective, strategy," Castiel says, looking in Amala's eyes. He doesn't sound like he's lecturing, like he'll do to Sam or Dean when he knows something they don't. He just sounds concerned, and a little sad. 

"There was Persephone's pomegranate. Faerie banquets often trap humans, and I'm sure you've read of the hallucinogenic lotus blossoms faced by Odysseus and his men. If you drink that, your soul will be bound here forever," Cas tells Amala, voice threaded through with tense warning.

Dean stands awkwardly by the side of the counter with Sam. He wants to rush over and knock the cup of strange liquid away, but he doesn't want to scare Amala, or ruin whatever chance Cas has of convincing her to leave. 

He doesn't expect her to laugh, but she does, albeit a little bitterly. "It was too good to be true," she muses. 

Come on, Dean thinks. You can do this. 

Before Cas can say anything, Amala throws the cup to the ground. She smashes it with her expensive flats, the black liquid oozing out from beneath her feet and soaking into the satin.

The tremors in the walls stop, and the remaining plates above them wobble precariously, but stay still. Amala wipes her sweaty palms on her apron, and notices for the first time the eerie way the employees stare, blank-faced, ahead of themselves. She was sure a moment ago that she knew their names, but now they're just random faces in a strange little coffee shop. 

Castiel dips his hand in a spilled jar of some sort of flavoring, and draws a messy, smudged sigil on the smooth counter-top. It will protect them from the demon, now that they're all together here. It also smells vaguely like raspberry. 

Amala self-consciously brushes the sweaty tangles of her hair away, as the silence settles over them like a blanket. "Are we going to leave now?" she asks, eyes lowered to the ground, exhausted. 

\---

The doctors only check on her every couple of hours, now. They haven't expected Ms. Dutta to wake up anytime soon, so the white hospital room is empty when she opens her eyes. The machines beep next to her like baby birds chirping, as if she'd just woken up in her own bed, sunlight streaming in through the open window. 

In reality, however, it is midnight, and there is no sound except for the echoes of coughs, and the choked whirr of the coffee machine in the hallway.

It's dark, and the joints in Amala's legs crack and threaten to give up, but she makes it to the bathroom alright. In front of the mirror, she has just enough time to register the sharp smell of disinfectant before something moves in her eyes-something yellow. No, not moving, but receding-the sulfur is disappearing from the blood vessels in her eyes, fading away until there is no sign that any mysterious yellow powder ever stained her. 

The nurse finds her propped against the wall, arm bleeding from where she ripped the IV out, but alive and breathing steadily. No small feat for someone who has had a demon inside of them. The room spins; she's dizzy with the lingering effects of the IV's drugs. But Amala is smiling, ever so slightly. 

\---

Dean wakes up with a start, wincing at the harsh motel lights. For the first time in weeks, he feels rested, clear-headed; though he could use a burger. It looks like all he needed was a night-or two-of sleep. Doesn't matter if it was technically a self-induced coma; it still counts in his book. 

"Sleep well?" Sam asks, relief evident in his hesitant smile, and Dean mirrors the expression. Cas looks up from where he kneels on the floor. Dean grabs his hand where it's still curled around his own, and pulls him up to sit with him against the headboard, grinning the whole time. 

He looks at Castiel, who has the barest hint of a smile on his own face, and kisses him on a surge of affection and pride. And Dean doesn't do really anything halfway, even 'chick-flick moments', so he ignores Sam's dramatic gagging sounds, and focuses instead on the way Cas' hair feels between his fingers. On the brightness of Cas' eyes. 

"Never better, Sammy."


End file.
